


A Tale in the Darkness

by bbcphile



Series: Triad [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile/pseuds/bbcphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock paused as he tried to remember exactly how asking for forgiveness was supposed to work.  It had been many years since he had cared for anyone’s opinion enough to try.   </p><p>Also known as, a row, an apology, and a violin solo. (Ignoring "The Empty Hearse" entirely)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale in the Darkness

The heavy thump of boots traveled up the stairs into 221B Baker Street, startling Sherlock out of his intense simultaneous contemplation of the fractal-like pattern of cracks scattered throughout the ceiling and a case involving a stolen sapphire necklace.  He turned his head towards the door, examining the shadows outside to gather data:  it was John, that much was obvious.  And, given that his tread was heavier now than before he left, something was upsetting him.  Where had he gone? Sherlock had a vague memory of John’s parting words before he had left . . . was that before dinner?  Sherlock glanced at the darkness outside the window. From the color of the sky and the noises from the street, it couldn’t be much past 11pm.  So, he had been gone about five hours, and was coming home alone and unhappy.  Probably more trouble finding a date.  No wonder Sherlock had deleted that bit of useless information.  He sighed in the knowledge that John would probably march in, nod a greeting, and go up to his room to pointedly not discuss his evening.  Such occurrences had become more frequent in the month since he returned to Baker Street after a two-year absence.  So much for telling John of the new advances in his cases.  Sherlock returned to his original reclining position on the sofa, trying yet again to figure out the equation to reproduce the peculiar pattern of breaks in the ceiling.

As Sherlock expected, John’s walk bore some martial characteristics as he entered their home and pivoted to hang up his coat and close the door with a degree of force just short of a slam.  Instead of marching upstairs after his customary nod, he walked to the parlor and collapsed in the armchair.  This piqued Sherlock’s interest; what was different this time that made John more willing to talk?  One glance answered his internal query.  The smell of stale alcohol on John’s jumper and the particular pinched look on his face showed that he had met Harry, rather than a date, for dinner, although Sherlock failed to deduce the subject of their row.  

“So, how was your evening, then?” John asked, testily.

This was new; John rarely tried to engage in conversation after disastrous meetings with his sister.  Sherlock sat up in one smooth gesture as he snapped his gaze towards his friend, his silk dressing gown cascading dramatically.  

“Boring.  The nanny stole the necklace and the ceiling is beginning to form a Dragon Curve.  How was your argument with Harry?”

John blinked in surprise.  “Right,” he said.  “So, you didn’t need my help on the necklace case? Wait, no. Don’t answer that; why would you need my help? You didn’t for the last two years.  You’re the genius, I’m just the glorified secretary.”  He chuckled sarcastically under his breath, then shook his head as his pushed himself out of his chair and walked towards the kitchen.  “Don’t mind me, it’s been a long night.  Fancy a cuppa?”

Sherlock tilted his head in puzzlement as he watched his friend’s retreating figure.  He had catalogued John’s moods, from depressed and embarrassed about his disability at their first meeting to high on adrenaline, but this degree of frustrated self-deprecation was . . unexpected.  Unsure of how to respond with this new variable, Sherlock only half paid attention to his response.  “Yes.  With milk.”

As John opened the fridge, Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath, then saw the familiar dropped-down head posture that he knew preceded a lecture of some sort. Then he remembered.  “Ah.  I used the rest of the milk for an experiment. I needed to--”

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I don’t care what the experiment was for, and I can’t live on whatever toxic sludge has taken up residence in our fridge!  Could you once in your life remember to pick up the milk when you’ve finished it? You agreed to get it before I left the house . . . Let me guess.  You weren’t listening?  Or do you just delete everything I say?”

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, then narrowed his eyes as he attempted to piece together the clues.  Normally, this was a level of anger reserved for heads in the fridge or exceeding callous comments at crime scenes.  If only emotions were as easy to read as facts like where people went, or what they ate . . .

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed, eyes widening.  “Harry must have chosen today to overindulge.  What did she do this time?  Blame it on you for being a less-than-stellar brother? You really should know by now--“

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock!”  John yelled.  “For once, could you please not deduce me or my conversations?  You don’t automatically have a right to know every thing that’s said to me.  Could you just act like you respect me or my privacy?”

Sherlock actually looked confused, which, if John had been in a better mood, might have felt like apology enough.  He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again as he tried to make sense of his friend’s outburst and wishes.  “Apologies, John.” Sherlock paused as he tried to remember exactly how asking for forgiveness was supposed to work.  It had been many years since he had cared for anyone’s opinion enough to try.  “I realize that I tend towards the practical instead of the sympathetic and that occasionally necessitates what can apparently be construed as an invasion of privacy when I observe without previously obtaining permission, but  . . . please believe that although my actions may not be above reproach, my motives, when you are involved, usually are. I will endeavor to wait for you to share your thoughts with me rather than deducing them myself, although I cannot guarantee that I will always succeed.”

John’s initial shock and affection at the first glimmer of emotion and humility his closest friend displayed were almost immediately replaced with wry amusement.  “You know,” he replied with a smirk, “you become much more formal when you get embarrassed.”  He immediately back-pedaled when he saw his friend’s face show a moment of fear and vulnerability that was immediately wiped clean of genuine emotion, replaced with an artificial nonchalance.

“No, Sherlock, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.” John put his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes as though he could unsee the last few minutes with the gesture. “I’m sorry. I was being a right git, taking my frustration at Harry out on you.  We can talk about it in the morning, if you really want to know, but now, I’m dead beat.  See you in the morning?” John yawned and walked towards the stairs, turning to look over his shoulder at his friend for confirmation.

Sherlock nodded and smiled sadly to himself as his flatmate walked upstairs.  “Goodnight John.  Sleep well.”

***********************

John gasped, springing bolt upright as he awoke from a nightmare, drenched in sweat, his sheets twisted around him as he must have been thrashing in his sleep.  Instead of his troops in Afghanistan haunting his dreams, he had seen both Sherlock and Harry, bleeding out before his eyes, looking at him accusingly, as though if he had just run a little harder, thought a little faster, said the right thing at the right moment, he could have saved them.  He sat there for a few minutes, willing his heartbeat to slow as he wiped the tears from his eyes and reminded himself that the people he cared for most in the world were still safe in London, at least for the moment.

He glanced at the time--only 4am--he’d never make it through a full day at the surgery if he didn’t get some sleep.  He lay down again, desperate for and somewhat scared of falling back asleep, when he heard the quiet sound of music.  He strained to listen and could faintly make out the sound of a violin playing beautifully and quietly.  He smiled to himself--he hadn’t remembered telling Sherlock that the violin solo from Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade” was his favorite classical piece.  He began to relax and closed his eyes as the music wrapped around him, making him feel safe, secure, and loved.

********************

When his alarm beeped loudly three hours later, John awoke surprisingly refreshed but bleary-eyed from his otherwise dreamless slumber.   He stumbled downstairs, stretching and yawning groggily, and started the kettle boiling for his morning cuppa.  “Sherlock, tea! Do you want any?” he called.  

To his surprise and slight concern, there was no answer, and no sign of friend in the flat.  Sighing, he reluctantly accepted that Sherlock must have decided to leave for the day to avoid any awkward discussions of the events of the previous night.  Or early morning.  On autopilot, he opened the fridge, expecting  the traditional assortment of abandoned experiments and fresh body parts.  The sight that met his rapidly-blinking eyes took a full twenty seconds to process: sitting in the otherwise empty fridge were five unopened gallons of milk.  Smiling, John poured his cup of tea and walked over to the open window and looked out over London.  Today, at least, would be a good day.  


End file.
